Page 52 of A Wistful Symphony

Rock-bottom Requiem

M usic is my priority.

For a week, I’ve been repeating those words.

Every waking hour, when I’m worried sick, thinking you might be high off your arse somewhere.

When you flood my phone with texts and calls, making me silence the damn thing and hide it in the nightstand drawer so I won’t be tempted to call you back.

When I recall all our delightful moments and reason that these last few days, you weren’t yourself. That it was the drugs talking.

Every single time, I remember:

“I have no one.”

“What the hell are you still doing here, then?”

Recalling your spiteful tone carves craters through my chest, but I let it. My mother is right. I need to draw a line somewhere. So I decide not to get caught up in your mess until after my audition.

You’ll have to survive a week without me. Will I be able to do the same?

Rachmaninoff blasts through the living room in endless loops, day after day, hour after hour. One round of playing for each thought I have of you.

Hide your feelings, Eric . Hide your fears, hide your doubts and insecurities. Turn them into music.

That’s what I’ve been doing. That’s how I’m surviving.

Swift as the wind, the day of the audition comes.

I’ve not slept a single second, burdened by spiralling thoughts.

A catastrophic stream, blasting in waves ever higher.

What if they don’t like my technique? What if my efforts weren’t enough to surpass the hearing loss?

Or worse, what if I was never good enough to begin with?

A mediocre musician with illusions of grandeur.

What will I ever do with my life if they don’t accept me?

Believing a few rounds of practice could ease my worries, I sit by the piano after breakfast.

“Oh no, today is the big day. You’ll not practice hours before the audition,” Mum chides when she hears the music.

“But I need to warm up my fingers.”

“Which you can do with études and scales, not with the piece you’re auditioning.”

“But Mum—”

“No buts. études and scales, then you get off that piano and calm yourself down.”

I begrudgingly comply. After half an hour of the most boring finger-warmer pieces I can think of, I decide to bike for a while to clear my head. My mother approves, as long as I’m home at exactly 10:30 a.m. so we can catch the 11:00 a.m. train to London.

While I’m pedalling down the country road, my phone rings. Assuming it’s you, I let it go to voicemail and continue on my way. When the number of missed calls gets dangerously close to the double digits, I park my bike and give up.

It’s not your number, though. It’s Astro’s.

“Finally, you picked up,” he says. “Have you seen Andrew?”

“No, and I can’t help with another one of his crises right now. My audition is in a few hours. I’m sorry, but you’ll have to hold the fort for one more day.”

“Yeah, except he’s missing. His flat is empty, and he hasn’t shown up at the club all week. Even the junkies he made friends with say he vanished.” Astro sighs on the other side of the line. “No one has seen him in at least two days.”

Shit. My heart pounds, filled with dread. Shit. Shit. Shit!

I can’t , I tell myself. There’s only two hours left until my train departs, and this day is the most important of all.

My hands must be properly warmed up, my repertoire pristine, and my mental state as serene as possible.

I have to leave this one in Astro’s hands.

He’s surely capable of finding you. But then again, how would I cope waiting for his call until he tells me you’re safe, that this was just a scare?

The fear would eat me alive. And I still have some time to spare.

What the fuck am I doing?

“Meet me at Andrew’s flat. I’ll be there in a sec.” The phone hangs between my good ear and my shoulder while I make a U-turn.

I hit the pedals relentlessly, biking my way to the farthest side of town. My legs burn, but I give them no rest. Worries fly along with the road, chilling thoughts passing by like the trunks of trees, one after the other on the periphery of my brain, turning back to a single theme.

Where are you, Andrew?

When I get to your flat, the motorcycle parked by the building complex tells me Astro is already there. I run up the flights of stairs only to find him on the fire escape, having a cigarette.

“Why did you want to meet me here? I already said he’s not home.” He puts out the stub on the banister.

“I thought of looking for clues.” I test the front door and find it, as always, open. “Something that might tell us where he went.”

“Oh, cool, let’s CSI this shit.” He follows me, stuffing his hands inside his leather jacket. “You get the bedroom and bathroom. I get the sitting room and kitchen.”

“Got it.”

The bed is not made, which is unusual for you. All your clothes are still in the wardrobe, and your personal items are inside the drawers. Most importantly, your violin is on the table, stored and secure inside its case. You wouldn’t stay away for long without it.

When I open the bathroom cabinet, the pills are back. You sure were quick to refill the bottles after I flushed everything down the toilet. There’s no illegal stuff to be found, at least. It’s a meagre silver lining. Does it matter at this point?

“Everything is still in place,” I say back in the sitting room. “He didn’t pack anything, so he should be somewhere around town.”

“Been out of the flat for at least a day, though,” Astro answers. “Both the dirty dishes and the trash are starting to stink.”

“That doesn’t narrow it down much.” I sigh, passing a hand over my face. “Have you tried the pier by the river? It’s his favourite spot.”

“It’s worth a try.”

Astro rushes out and I follow him along the vegetative path. The river is silent, the water still and the leaves unmoving on the tree branches, undisturbed even by the tiniest of breezes. Like not a single soul has ever been here.

“Nothing.” Astro huffs.

“Wait.” I squat by the ledge. A couple of stubs rest there, grey and cold. You were here, but how long ago? “Astro, can you guess how old these are?”

“Mate, the CSI thing was a joke, okay? All I know is they’re not fresh.”

“Right, sorry,” I mutter, looking at the water. The memory of your golden hair floating in the river chills my spine. A grim déjà vu of your body sinking far beyond the dark waters. I ward off a shudder, and only then realise I was holding my breath.

No. You wouldn’t do that , I reassure myself, and get up. “We should think of another place to look.”

“Wanna check out the club again and see if anyone has seen him?”

“Sure. Lemme grab my bike.”

My watch shows I have less than an hour left, and a dreary sigh escapes my lips.

It would be faster if I hopped onto Astro’s motorcycle, but driving at a high speed with no spare helmet, plus having to hold on to his sweaty and unfamiliar body, would be a feast for the thoughts. And there are too many as we speak.

The club is another dead end. The owner hasn’t seen you for days, and roars that if we find you, we should tell you your arse is fired.

The punks roaming the place are equally unhelpful.

They claim not to have seen you—and even if they did, they’re too high to recognise you.

The only one conscious enough to give us a straight answer says it’s been a day and a half since you bought a stash nearby.

A day and a half. That’s enough time for something bad to have happened. And I’m running out of options. “Want to try the manor?”

Astro raises one pierced eyebrow. “The Westcotts’? That’s like the last place he would go.”

“I know. But we haven’t gone there yet. It’s worth a shot.”

“Fine, your call.” He goes back to his bike, and we rush to the town centre.

When I get to Westcott House, Astro is already in front of the garden, waiting by his motorcycle. I run to the doorbell and press it, not caring who’s going to answer. My desperation is enough to make me face the reverend at this point.

Andrew is here. A buzz. Andrew has to be here. Another buzz. Andrew needs to be here. Buzz, buzz, buzz.

“Heavens, I’m here. What’s the matter?” Claire Westcott says, before realising it’s me. “I believe I told you not to come to this place anymore.”

“I know, and I would gladly never set foot here again, but Andrew is missing. Have you seen him?”

Her face turns pale. “Missing? For how long?”

“Almost two days.” My voice grows more urgent. “Has he come by recently?”

“No.” She compresses her lips and draws both hands to her chest. “It’s been weeks since I last saw him.”

“Great, another dead end.” I turn around, but she takes me by the arm.

“Please, don’t go yet.” Mrs Westcott comes back inside and returns holding a scribbled Post-it. “If you find him, please, will you let me know?”

I shouldn’t do that woman any favours. If only she had been by your side, if only she hadn’t abided by Reverend Westcott’s nonsense, things would’ve turned out differently. But alas, she’s the only mother you have.

“Sure.” I take the paper and store it in my pocket.

After the door closes, I take my phone and dial Mum’s number.

“Where the hell are you?” she nearly screams.

“Mum, I’m taking care of some things. I’ll meet you at the station, okay?”

“Eric, if this is about Andrew, I’ll—” I hang up before she can finish the sentence.

Exhaling, I tuck the phone away and look at my watch. Almost ten-thirty. Shit. I’ll have to make do with the little time I have.

“Have you gone to his usual hangout spots?” I turn to Astro. “The abandoned house?”

“Checked them all. Not a hint of him.”

My brows knit. “Is it too early for us to call the police and hospitals?”

“Perhaps not. I don’t know. I’m not thinking straight.” Astro shakes his head. “Are you sure you’ve got nothing from him? A text? Something he said?”